My whole family was brutally murdered? I awakened the thug system and went on a killing spree.

The No. 3 cold storage facility in the Jiangcheng underground base has been turned into Hu Biao's private playground.

A dozen or so technical experts circled around the five iron lumps that Qin Meng had kneaded into squares, the scanner probes buzzing against the metal surfaces.

Hu Biao lay on the alloy table, carefully pulling out a sample of abyssal serum from the gap with tweezers, holding it up to the light to examine it, and muttering to himself.

Qin Meng ignored them.

After closing the door to the rest area, he threw himself onto a specially made, reinforced titanium alloy bed frame.

The bed frame groaned painfully under his weight, but managed to hold on.

Two thousand seven hundred points of physique.

The remaining energy of the judge was still circulating within his body, and the black hole engine continued to operate at extremely low power, crushing, transforming, and incorporating the high-dimensional particles that had not yet decomposed into muscle fibers and bone density bit by bit.

He doesn't need to do anything during this process; he can just lie down.

He closed his eyes.

What kept circling in my mind wasn't the Judge, nor the Abyss Royal Court, but the Prime Minister's dying words—"Change the physical constants."

Gravity? The speed of light? Or something more fundamental?

Can't figure it out.

Qin Meng is not a physicist; his knowledge of fundamental constants is limited to the level of high school textbooks.

This kind of work that requires brainpower should be left to Hu Biao and his gang of lunatics.

He only cares about one thing.

Whoever comes, we'll eat them.

I slept for six hours.

The black hole engine's digestion process woke him up—the residual energy was processed, and his physique stabilized at 2700, with no further increase.

The Judge's high-dimensional energy conversion rate is much lower than that of the Great Lord, and most of the heat is dissipated as waste heat by the engine during the digestion process.

Qin Meng sat up, twisted his neck left and right, and his joints cracked four or five times.

The communicator screen was filled with over a dozen unread messages. They were all sent by Jiang Nuonuo.

The earliest message was from six hours ago: "Boss, the three-day deadline is up."

The middle items are continuously updated lists.

The latest post, from twenty minutes ago, reads: "They've been kneeling outside for three hours; some of the older ones are almost fainting. Should we give them some water?"

Qin Meng replied with a single word: "No."

He stood up and took out the spare clothes that Jiang Nuonuo had prepared for him from the bedside table.

Black T-shirt, black combat pants, and military boots, size 46.

Once you put it on, it feels tight and constricting, with the cuffs gripping your arms; the fabric's elasticity has reached its limit.

A muscle density of 2,700 points in Physique is not intended for fashion designers.

He pushed open the door to the rest area and walked down the corridor to the ground floor.

He encountered several Jiangcheng soldiers on duty in the corridor. Upon seeing him, the soldiers' legs went weak, and they gave him a series of crooked salutes.

Qin Meng ignored him and went straight to the ground.

The temporary reception area in the eastern suburbs of Jiangcheng.

Calling it a "reception area" sounds nice, but it's really just a wasteland that's been bulldozed.

The ground was covered with a layer of gravel, and barbed wire was strung around the perimeter. Two heavy machine guns were mounted in the corner—not for external defense, but for pointing inwards.

One hundred and thirty-seven people were kneeling inside the barbed wire fence.

Qin Meng's ultimatum, issued three days ago, was worded simply: those in charge of forces at the seventh rank or above nationwide must report to Jiangcheng within three days, or he would personally come to their door.

These 137 people arrived on time despite the threat of death.

The lineup is quite complete.

The remaining heads of the collateral branches of the four major northern families—the main branch—were all wiped out in the defense of the capital. Now, those who have emerged to take over are all collateral descendants in their thirties and forties, their faces filled with "I don't want to come, but I don't want to die even more."

The martial arts alliance representatives from the six southern provinces were all middle-aged men, tanned dark and with calloused hands, looking more robust than the young masters from the aristocratic families of the capital.

The tribal leaders of the three western autonomous regions, dressed in traditional clothing, appeared calmer than the others, but in a different way—as if they had already resigned themselves to their fate.

There were also a few faces that Qin Meng had never seen before. Judging from their clothing and demeanor, they were likely warlords who had carved out their own territories after the apocalypse.

One hundred and thirty-seven people knelt for more than three hours.

The sun was high overhead. In June, the temperature in Wuhan was 35 degrees Celsius.

The temperature on the gravel ground was even higher; kneeling on it felt almost like kneeling on a hot plate.

Someone suffered from heatstroke, and the person next to them pinched their philtrum to support them, preventing them from collapsing.

Someone wet their pants.

They had been kneeling for three and a half hours, and their bladders couldn't take it anymore. But no one dared to stand up.

When Qin Meng appeared at the entrance of the barbed wire fence, all 137 pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

The emotions in his eyes were complex. Fear was the underlying tone, making up 90%.

The remaining ten percent is mixed with wishful thinking, resentment, flattery, and numbness, and the proportion varies from person to person.

Qin Meng walked in.

He wasn't wearing armor or carrying any weapons; he was just dressed in a black T-shirt and black pants, with a pair of military boots covered in mud.

But with each step he took, the gravel beneath his feet creaked under his weight. The sound was faint, but it was more stimulating than cannon fire to the ears of the 137 people.

Jiang Nuonuo followed behind him, holding an electronic board with a list on it.

Qin Meng stopped in front of the crowd.

He didn't speak.

The silence lasted for about twenty seconds.

Twenty seconds is enough to get a lot done. In the front row, the head of a collateral branch of the northern family had sweat dripping from his hairline to the tip of his chin, a total of seven drops.

Qin Meng counted them.

"Stand up."

One hundred and thirty-seven people scrambled to their feet from the ground.

A dozen or so people had their legs numb from kneeling and couldn't stand steadily, so they swayed and held onto the people next to them.

Qin Meng glanced around.

"I don't want your money, I don't want your territory, I don't want your people."

Several people in the crowd exchanged glances.

Don't want money or land? Then what do you want?

"Those old-fashioned, worthless pieces of paper are not within my consideration."

Qin Meng said, "I only want one thing."

He held up one finger.

"Food."

Quiet.

"High-level exotic beasts, those of the seventh rank or higher. High-dimensional materials, those junk pieces that came out of the abyss."

Ore, high-energy ore, you shall hand over whatever amount you have on your territory.

These three categories are the only things you need to pay me starting today.

"A fixed amount will be paid monthly. Jiang Nuonuo will coordinate the specific amount with you."

"You've paid enough. Go live your lives as you please. I don't care about the mess in your territory. Not enough—"

Qin Meng paused for a moment.

There's no need to finish your sentence.

Everyone present understood what came after "not enough to pay".

The ruins of the capital are still smoldering, and the coastline of Japan is still submerged in the sea. These two examples are enough for everyone to complete that sentence.

"The second one." Qin Meng held up his second finger.

"Report any trace of higher-dimensional beings on your territory to Jiangcheng immediately. Concealing, delaying, or falsifying reports will be treated the same as failing to deliver enough grain."

"The third one." The third finger.

"After you return to your respective jurisdictions, compile a list of the population, resources, and armed forces within your jurisdictions and send it to Jiangcheng within a week."

I need to know how many people are left in this country, how many are capable of fighting, and how many are still useful.

"Three rules, understand them and then we're done."